Bernard Brooks' Adventures: The Experience of a Plucky Boy
TekstCHAPTER XXV. BERNARD’S GOOD FORTUNE
It will be several days before I shall be able to get away, Bernard,” said Walter Cunningham, the next morning, “and, by the way, I have not told you where I am going.”
“No, sir; I should like very much to know.”
“I propose to visit Italy and perhaps Sicily. We shall go first to Paris, and remain a short time.” Bernard’s eyes sparkled. He had always wished to visit the continent, and had expected to do so in the company of Professor Puffer, but he felt that he should enjoy himself much more in the companionship of Walter Cunningham. Even had Puffer proved a reliable man, there was nothing about him to win the good will and attachment of a boy of his age.
“I shall enjoy it very much, Mr. Cunningham,” said Bernard.
“So I hope. I have not told you much about myself,” continued the young man, “but as we are to be companions and friends it is proper that I should do so.”
Bernard did not speak, but his face expressed unmistakable interest.
“I am alone in the world. My father and mother are dead, and I never had a brother or sister. My father was a wealthy man of business and a man of note, having reached (this was two years before he died) the position of Lord Mayor of London. He contracted a fever at his country house, where, it appeared, the drainage was bad. Two years since, just after I had attained my majority, he died, my mother having preceded him; and I was left in possession of a hundred thousand pounds.”
“Half a million of dollars!” said Bernard.
“Yes, that is the way it would be rated in America. In a pecuniary way, therefore, I am fortunate, but I can’t tell you how solitary I feel at times.”
“I can understand it, Mr. Cunningham. I am in the same position as yourself, only that I am left destitute.”
“Then it appears to me, Bernard, there is a special propriety in our being together. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“I am but seven years older. I shall look upon you as a younger brother, and in our new relationship I shall expect you to drop the formal Mr. and call me Walter.”
“It will seem awkward at first, but I shall get used to it and like it.”
“By the way – you will excuse my mentioning it – but it seems to me that your suit is well worn, not to say shabby.”
“That is true. As soon as I can afford it I will buy another.”
“You need not wait till then. I will send you to my tailor’s, with instructions to make you two suits at once. I will also give you an order on my haberdasher for such articles as you may require in his line.”
“Thank you. You can deduct the price from my salary.”
“That is unnecessary. These articles will be my first gift to you.”
“How kind you are, Walter. I think,” Bernard added with a smile, “Professor Puffer would be willing to be a brother to you.”
“I have no doubt of it, but in spite of the professor’s fascinations and the affection which he says you entertain for him, I am afraid I should not appreciate him as perhaps he deserves. Now, I think it will be well for you to go and order your clothing, as we haven’t much time to spare.”
Mr. Cunningham’s tailor occupied a shop in Regent Street, and thither Bernard went. He took with him a note from his employer which insured him a flattering reception. He had no trouble in choosing cloth for suits, as Mr. Cunningham had sent instructions. Next he repaired to the haberdasher’s, and selected such furnishing goods as he required. By special direction of Mr. Cunningham they were of the best description.
He was just coming out of the shop when he met the young man – the first applicant for the position of companion to Mr. Cunningham. He looked rather shabby, and Bernard noticed that his coat was shiny.
He stopped short at sight of Bernard.
“Didn’t I see you at Mr. Cunningham’s rooms at Morley’s two days since?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have been expecting to hear from him. Do you know whether he has yet made choice of a traveling companion?”
“Yes, sir; he has.”
A shade of disappointment passed over the young man’s features.
“Whom did he select?” he asked.
“He chose me.”
“You!” exclaimed the other, in mingled surprise and disdain. “You?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What on earth made him select you? Why, you are only a boy.”
“That is true.”
“Have you ever traveled?”
“Only across the Atlantic from America.”
“It is positively humiliating,” said the other angrily, “to be superseded by a half grown, immature boy,” and he glared at Bernard.
“No doubt, sir,” said Bernard.
“Why, it was the height of audacity for you to apply for such a position.”
“I suppose it was,” said Bernard modestly; “but I had one excuse.”
“What was it?”
“I was poor, and very much in need of employment.”
“Then why didn’t you apply for a position as shop boy.”
“Because I don’t think I could live on the pay of a shop boy.”
“Mr. Cunningham must be insane. Certain no man with his wits about him could make such a foolish selection. Listen to me! I am poor as well as you. I need a new suit of clothes, but I can’t buy it. I have been out of work for three months. Now I am going to ask a favor of you.”
Bernard concluded that the favor was a pecuniary one, and he felt disposed to assist his unfortunate fellow applicant; but he waited to have him explain himself.
“This is the favor I ask,” the young man proceeded. “You will not long retain your position. Mr. Cunningham will discover your incompetency. When you are about to be discharged, will you mention my name as your successor? I am sure to suit Mr. Cunningham. There is my card.”
Considerably astonished at the coolness of the request, Bernard glanced at the card. It bore the name and address of Stephen Brayton.
“I will remember your request, Mr. Brayton,” he said; “but I hope I shall not be discharged.”
“Of course you hope so, but you are certain to lose your place. You seem to be good-natured. Since you have been successful, perhaps you will do me another favor.”
“I will if I can.”
“It is a small one. I am very short of money. Could you lend me half a crown?”
“I will do better than that. Here’s half a sovereign.”
The young man’s eyes sparkled with pleasure.
“You have a good heart,” he said. “As I did not get the place I am glad you did.”
“Thank you. I wish you good luck.”
“He is right,” thought Bernard. “It was certainly a singular selection for Mr. Cunningham to make. He did not think of my qualifications. He evidently took a liking to me.”
The next morning as Bernard was sitting in Mr. Cunningham’s rooms at Morley’s assorting his papers, the servant brought in a short note which Bernard read.
It ran thus:
“My Dear Mr. Cunningham:
“Not yet having heard from you, and being uncertain as to your decision in reference to a traveling companion, I have ventured to call to inquire as to your intentions. It is desirable that I should know speedily, as I have a proposal from another party which I shall otherwise accept. I should, however, prefer to go with you, as in the brief interview which you kindly accorded me I was very favorably impressed by your engaging personal traits.
“I am, very respectfully,
“Ezra Puffer.”
Bernard read over this note with amusement and a little apprehension.
“What had I better do?” he thought. “Will it be safe for me to see the professor?”
Mr. Cunningham had assured him that Professor Puffer could have no possible hold upon him, and he therefore decided to take the risk.
“You can tell the gentleman to come in,” he said.
Professor Puffer was in the anteroom. When he presented himself, with the note already written, he asked the servant, “Is Mr. Cunningham in?”
“No, sir,” said the servant; “but Mr. Brooks is in.”
“Is Mr. Brooks a friend of Mr. Cunningham’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then be kind enough to hand him this note. It is addressed to Mr. Cunningham, but he can read it.”
“Yes, sir. All right, sir.”
Quite unprepared for a meeting with his old ward, Professor Puffer entered the room with a jaunty step. When he recognized Bernard, he stepped back with an expression of intense astonishment on his face.
“Bernard Brooks!” he ejaculated..
“Yes, Professor Puffer. What can I do for you?”
CHAPTER XXVI. PROFESSOR PUFFER ONCE MORE
What brings you here, Bernard Brooks?” demanded Professor Puffer sternly. “You have no business in Mr. Cunningham’s room.”
“I am in the employ of Mr. Cunningham,” said Bernard.
“How can that be? You are too young to be his valet.”
“I have been engaged by him as his traveling companion.”
To say that Professor Puffer was surprised would be too mild. He was absolutely overwhelmed with astonishment. He could not believe it.
“This must be a falsehood,” he returned after a pause.
“You can stay here and inquire of Mr. Cunningham if you like.”
“I will,” said Puffer sternly. “I will let him know in that case that you are under my guardianship, and that I will not permit you to accept the preposterous engagement. You, a traveling companion!”
Bernard was not quite withered by the professor’s disdainful tone. Secure in the attachment of Walter Cunningham, all fear of his quondam guardian had disappeared.
“You forget, Professor Puffer, that I was your companion,” he said with a smile. “If I was fit to be your companion, I am certainly fit to be his.”
“You were not my companion. You were my ward. You are my ward still, and when I leave this place you must go too.”
“Would you take away Mr. Cunningham’s traveling companion?”
“He will have no trouble in obtaining a better one. But I don’t believe you have been engaged. He would have no use for a child.”
“Say ‘kid’ at once, professor.”
“I do not use slang,” returned Professor Puffer severely. “I shall wait and see Mr. Cunningham.”
“You will excuse my going on with my work.”
“What are you doing?”
“Sorting Mr. Cunningham’s papers.”
“Does he trust you to do that?”
“He requests me to do so.”
“Do you actually mean to say that you have been engaged as his traveling companion?”
“It is quite true.”
“Where did you fall in with him?”
“I saw his advertisement and applied for the place.”
“Where were you staying at the time?”
“At the Arundel Hotel, near the Strand.”
“Ha! And I was only in the next street How did it happen that I did not meet you?”
“I don’t know.”
“If your story is true, which I can hardly believe, what pay has Mr. Cunningham promised to give you?”
“Excuse me, Professor Puffer, but I would rather not tell.”
“As your guardian, I demand an answer.”
“You are not my guardian. Nothing would induce me to place myself again under your charge. You know very well what reasons I have for fearing and distrusting you.”
“I suppose you allude to that little affair on board the Vesta.”
“That little affair, as you call it, was an attempt to murder me.”
“Nonsense!” said the professor, but he did not appear quite at his ease. “You had better not make such a ridiculous charge. No one will believe it.”
“You may be mistaken in that, Professor Puffer.”
“When does Mr. Cunningham propose to travel?”
“You had better apply to him. I do not feel at liberty to spread his plans.”
Professor Puffer felt exceedingly mortified and annoyed. Here was a situation which he had applied for and been refused actually given to a mere boy against whom he felt a grudge – his own ward, as he chose to consider him.
“I won’t let him keep the place,” said Puffer, shutting his lips firmly. “I will tear him away from this fool of a Cunningham – and when I get him once more into my grasp, I will revenge myself upon him. He won’t find it so easy to get away from me again.” Half an hour passed. The professor maintained his place, looking grim and angry. Bernard handed him the morning issue of the London Times, but he seemed busy with his own reflections, and scarcely glanced at it.
Finally a light step was heard at the door, and Mr. Cunningham entered the room. He looked from the professor to Bernard, and a smile formed upon his face. He guessed what had occurred.
“Professor Puffer, I believe?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” answered the professor. “May I ask you if you have considered my application?”
“Yes. I should have communicated with you. I have engaged Mr. Brooks to be my traveling companion.”
“Mr. Brooks!” said the professor scornfully. “Are you aware that this boy is under my guardianship?”
“No, I am not.”
“It is true, and he has no right to make any engagement without my permission.”
“Excuse me, but is this the boy of sixteen to whom you referred in your conversation with me the other day?”
“He is.”
“You said that you had been engaged as his traveling companion. You said nothing about being his guardian.”
“I didn’t go into particulars,” replied the professor, who began to see that there would be something to explain.
“You said, however, that he had left you, and had left England with some friends of the family.”
“Ahem! I was mistaken. I have been requested to resume the charge of him.”
“Have you a letter to that effect?”
“Not with me.”
“Your story appears inconsistent. I am convinced that you have no claim upon Bernard. I have engaged him as my companion, and intend to take him with me on my proposed journey.”
“Of what possible use can a boy be to you?”
“That is my affair!” said Walter Cunningham shortly.
“I will not permit him to go with you.”
“What do you propose to do about it?”
“I will appeal to the law.”
“I think, Professor Puffer, the less you have to do with the law the better. Bernard has informed me of a scene on board the Vesta which might expose you to arrest.”
“I don’t understand what he refers to.”
“I refer to your attempt to throw him overboard.”
“Does he say that?” asked the professor in pretended amazement.
“Yes.”
“Then he has told an outrageous falsehood. No such thing ever took place. He is the worst boy I ever met.”
“When you were here before you spoke very differently of him. You said he was a very attractive boy, and you referred to his attachment to you. You said he shed tears at parting from you.”
Bernard burst into a fit of laughter, which only aggravated his old guardian the more.
“He didn’t deserve it. I spoke of him as well as I could, because I did not want to hurt his reputation.”
“Professor Puffer,” said Walter Cunningham, in a tone of disgust, “I am busy this morning, and I will not detain you any longer.”
“I will go,” responded the professor, “but not alone. Bernard Brooks, come with me!”
“I decline,” said Bernard.
“Then I will have recourse to the law.”
“So will I,” retorted Bernard.
“No one will believe your preposterous charge, if that is what you refer to. You have no proof.”
“There you are mistaken. I have the affidavit of Jack Staples, seaman on the Vesta, who saved me from your murderous attack.”
Puffer turned pale. What Bernard said surprised him very much, and he saw at once that such a document would mean danger to him.
“If you want to invoke the law, Professor Puffer, you can do so,” said Mr. Cunningham.
Puffer was discreetly silent. He seized his hat and left the room without bidding farewell to Bernard or Walter Cunningham.
“Your friend has gone, Bernard,” said Cunningham. “I venture to say that he won’t come back. It is certainly a droll circumstance that you and he should have applied for the same situation and that he was refused.”
“You may repent of your choice, Walter.”
“When I do I will tell you. And now, Bernard, I have brought you something.”
As he spoke he drew from his pocket a handsome gold watch and chain.
“I observed that you had no watch,” he said, “and I resolved to supply the deficiency.”
“How can I thank you, Walter?” exclaimed Bernard in joyful excitement. “Of all things it is the one I most desired.”
“You will find it a good one. In such an article as a watch, a cheap one is not desirable. Here is one which you can keep all your life.”
Before leaving London Bernard wrote the following letter to his friend Barclay:
“Dear Nat: You may be desirous of hearing from me. I have not time to go into details. I will say, however, that my New York guardian is no friend of mine, but as well as I can make out, a dangerous enemy. He sent me to England in charge of a man named Puffer – he calls himself Professor Puffer – who tried to throw me overboard one dark night. I escaped from him after reaching London and secured a very advantageous situation as traveling companion to a wealthy young man named Walter Cunningham. We start next week for Italy, and I am very busy making preparations. I will write you from Italy.
“Do you ever see my dear friend Septimus, and is he as sweet and amiable as ever? I didn’t like his father, but I prefer him to Professor Puffer.
“Your sincere friend,
“Bernard Brooks.”
CHAPTER XXVII. A CITIZEN OF NEBRASKA
Three months later Bernard and Mr. Cunningham were domiciled in the Hotel Constance in Rome. They had taken a leisurely course from London, staying three weeks in Paris, visiting the interior of France, and spending some weeks in Switzerland and northern Italy. They had now been two weeks in Rome, and used the time to good advantage in visiting the art galleries and the ruins of the ancient city.
Bernard had enjoyed everything, and had managed to pick up some conversational Italian. To some extent he had acted as courier for Mr. Cunningham, who had always been accustomed to have things done for him. He found Bernard especially useful, as he had dismissed his servant at Milan. The latter was a stiff-necked Englishman, and was continually getting into trouble from his inability to adapt himself to foreigners and foreign ways.
“Are you ready to leave Rome, Bernard?” asked Walter Cunningham.
“Whenever you are,” answered Bernard promptly. “Of course we have not seen all or even a small part of the things worth seeing, but I am tired of sightseeing. I have thought that an independent excursion in our own carriage, not following any prescribed course, but halting where the fancy seizes us, would be enjoyable.”
“I should like nothing better,” said Bernard enthusiastically. “In what direction do you propose to go?”
“In the general direction of Naples.”
“I am told by an American, who is a guest at this hotel, that there are several routes.”
“That is true. I have decided to go by way of Frosinone, San Germano, and Capua. The route is said to be very interesting. I wish you would look up a vetturino and arrange to hire him by the day. Then we shall be able to pursue an independent course.”
“I will do so, Walter. Have you any instructions as to the price?”
“No: you know from the short excursions we have made what is fair and moderate. You may as well select a vettura that is roomy and large enough to accommodate four persons. We don’t want to be cramped, for that will interfere with our enjoyment.”
“And when do you wish to start?”
“To-morrow morning, say at eleven o’clock.”
“Very well. I will attend to it.”
“It is a great comfort to have you with me, Bernard. You take a great deal of trouble off my hands.”
“I am glad to hear you say that. Think how I would be situated if you had not taken me up.”
“I have been well repaid for doing so.”
Bernard engaged a vettura, a traveling carriage, designed for four persons, and in an hour it made its appearance. The vetturino, as the driver is called, was a lithe, slender, dark-complexioned man who answered to the name of Pasquale. What his last name was Bernard did not inquire, as it was sufficient to have a single name to call him by.
“How long will the signor want the vettura?” asked the driver.
“I do not know. We will hire it by the day.”
“And where will the signor wish to go?”
“To Naples, by way of Valmontone and Frosinone. Do you know the route?”
“Si, signor, most assuredly.”
Bernard and Mr. Cunningham seated themselves in the carriage, and they started. They left Rome by the Porta Maggiore, their course being through the Campagna, the dreary and unwholesome tract in the immediate neighborhood of Rome. There was very little to see in the first day’s journey except a ruined aqueduct, which detained them but a short time, and they pushed on to Valmontone, where they arranged to stop over night. The inn was far from satisfactory, and they were not tempted to prolong their stay.
In the evening, as they sat on a bench outside the inn, a man of about fifty, wearing a tall white hat, with an unmistakable American look, walked up to them and removing his hat said: “Gentlemen, I’m glad to see you. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Amos Sanderson, and I live about ten miles from Omaha when I’m at home.”
“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sanderson,” said Cunningham politely. “I am Walter Cunningham, from London.”
“You don’t mean to say you’re an Englishman,” said Sanderson, in surprise. “You look like an American.”
“Doubtless that is meant as a compliment,” said Cunningham, smiling.
“Well, I never heard any one take offense at being taken for an American.”
“True. I have been in America, and I understand why it is that you Americans are proud of your country. However, if I am not an American, my young friend here, Bernard Brooks, is an American boy.”
“I am glad to meet a fellow countryman, Mr. Sanderson,” remarked Bernard, smiling.
“Well, well, it does seem real good to meet an American boy,” said Mr. Sanderson, his face lighting up. “Shake, Bernard, my boy!” and he extended a muscular hand, which Bernard shook cordially.
“Are you staying at this hotel, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Walter Cunningham.
“Don’t call it a hotel! It doesn’t deserve the name. Call it a tavern. It’s a regular one horse place.”
“Then I am glad we are only going to stop one night.”
“I have been here a day and a half, and it’s the longest day and a half I ever passed.”
“Why did you stay if you didn’t like it?”
“I’ll tell you why. I came here in a small vettura, and I had a quarrel with the vetturino, who tried to cheat. So I sent him off, and was glad to get rid of him, for a man with a more villainous countenance I never saw. I haven’t been able to get another carriage, so here I am. How did you come?”
“By a vettura. We are making the journey in a leisurely way, going as far or as short a distance daily as we choose.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Naples.”
“So am I. Is your vettura a large one?”
“Large enough to hold four persons. We like plenty of room.”
“Then I’ll make you a proposition. Here I am alone – shipwrecked, as it were, on land. If you will let me join your party I’ll pay my share of the expense. In fact, I don’t mind paying more, for I ain’t mean, though I do hate to be imposed upon. Come now, what do you say?”
Walter Cunningham was rather startled by this unexpected proposal from an utter stranger. It jarred somewhat against his British exclusiveness. Still, there was something attractive in the American, rough and unpolished as he was in his manners, and Cunningham felt that he would amuse and interest them. As far as honesty went it would be impossible to suspect Mr. Sanderson. Besides, he looked like a man of substance and not like an adventurer. Walter Cunningham glanced towards Bernard, and thought he read in the boy’s face a desire that the American’s proposal should be accepted.
“I hardly know what to say,” he replied after a pause. “We do not in general care for the companionship of others, and I can hardly be said to have much knowledge of you – our acquaintance being of the briefest.”
“About ten minutes,” said Mr. Sanderson. “That’s true, and I’m afraid it’s cheeky in me to ask you to take me, but I feel sort of drawn to you both, particularly to my young countryman, Bernard.”
“Say no more, Mr. Sanderson. We’ll take you with us as far as Capua, at any rate. There, as it is a large and well known place, you will have no difficulty in making other arrangements.”
“Thank you, squire. You’re a gentleman. You’ll find Amos Sanderson a true friend, that’ll stand by you through thick and thin. If we are attacked by bandits, he won’t run away and leave you in the lurch.”
“Bandits? Surely there is no danger of meeting any of them?”
“Well, squire, I wish there wasn’t, but I don’t feel certain. Only last week a couple of gentlemen were overhauled, and had to pay a good stiff sum to get away.”
“I supposed the bandits had all been driven out of the country.”
“That’s where you are mistaken. There’s people everywhere that find it easier and more agreeable to make money by taking it than by earning it, and I guess Italy has her fair share of such gentry. I’ll tell you a little secret. I quarreled with my vetturino on purpose. His face was a villainous one, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he were in league with some of the bandits.”
“I have heard of such things.”
“Some of these vetturinos” (Mr. Sanderson was not aware that he should have said vetturini) “have brothers or cousins among the bandits and play into their hands. I guess mine was one of that kind.”
“Our vetturino Pasquale seems to be an honest sort of fellow. I should not suspect him of leading us into a trap.”